She smiled pertly at him, her coppery brown eyes sparkling beneath dark brows dipped in a vee. She looked, he thought, delightfully devilish.
“Why, Lord Ardencaple, we meet again,” she said happily, clasping her hands before her.
“Aye, that we do,” he said, racking his brain for her name.
“You do recall our introduction, do you not?”
“Naturally, I do, and it was indeed a pleasure,” he lied.
“If it was indeed a pleasure, then I should think you might recall my name,” she said as the corners of her lips curled into a daring little smile.
That, more than anything, caught Grif’s attention. He’d been in London a month now and had learned that the many lovely ladies of the ton were, by virtue of their many societal rules, prisoners of decorum and propriety. Of all the women he’d met—and there had been quite a lot of them, pretty and young and terribly enticing to the man in him—he had yet to meet one who was quite so… saucy.
Grif paused to have a closer look, and couldn’t help but like what he saw—her hair was an earthy maple color with strands of dark auburn. It was swept up in bunches of ringlets as was the current fashion. Her nose was straight and delicate, her lips full and pleasing, and her neck long and slender. Her copper eyes were flecked with bits of deep gold. She was a very attractive woman, certainly, and he noticed, as he clasped his hands behind his back and smiled down at her, that her eyes were her most remarkable feature, for the sparkle in them clearly betrayed the vixen in her.
The vixen lifted her head, smiling playfully. “Oh dear, my lord, have you perhaps forgotten our introduction?” she teased.
“How could I possibly forget ye, lass?” he asked, his gaze drifting to her lips.
“Then say it—I dare you,” she said, her smile broadening.
“Why should I? Just to please ye?”
“Yes. Just to please me.”
Saucy and impudent. Grif grinned, blatantly letting his gaze wander the length of her. “How dare a gentleman deny such a request? All right, here ye have it, just to please ye …Miss Dragh,” he said, using the Gaelic word for trouble, and winked.
That took her aback; the lass blinked up at him with those coppery eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do ye no’ recognize yer name in Gàidhlig, then?”
The saucy smile instantly returned, and she lifted her chin. “There, you see? You don’t recall my name! For I am certain that Miss Addison is Miss Addison in whatever language you choose.”
Miss Addison? The same Addison as the lovely Miss Lucy Addison? It surprised him, but Grif was skilled at the art of flirtation and did not flinch. He just smiled deep into her eyes. “Miss Addison it is, then,” he said. “I shall no’ forget it. And now, I must bid ye good night.” He allowed his gaze to sweep over her once more before stepping around her and walking on.
“Before you take your leave, Lord Ardencaple?” she called, stopping him. “I was wondering if you might know an acquaintance of mine from Scotland?”
God’s blood, why was it everyone in London supposed he knew every other Scot in the blessed world? “And who might that be, then?”
“His name is Captain Lockhart.”
She could not have stunned him more if she had kicked him in the shin. Grif stood almost paralyzed for a moment, his smile frozen, peering closely at her, assessing her. But she smiled innocently. “I canna say that I do,” he said.
“No?”
“No. Good night, then, Miss Addison,” he said, and bobbing his head in something of a bow, he continued on.
“Good night, my lord!” she sang after him.
Grif could feel her eyes on his back all the way out the door. Once outside, he drew a breath of relief, but his mind raced wildly. How could she possibly have known Liam? His brother hadn’t mentioned any women, had not even hinted at a woman besides Ellie. All right, then, the only plausible explanation was that Miss Addison must have met him at a social function, something like this ball. Aye, it was nothing more than that. A strange coincidence.
But for the entire drive to Cavendish Street, where he and Hugh lived like kings in Hugh’s grandmother’s house, he could not shake the rather unpleasant notion that Miss Addison knew something about him.
Five
T he next morning started with a row between Grif and Hugh, as Hugh had been out all night again, gambling with the money the Lockharts had borrowed and smelling of cheap perfume. Grif angrily reminded Hugh he was to be a valet, not a scoundrel. Hugh shoved the toast points he’d made at Grif and complained of feeling trapped. Before their argument was said and done, Grif had extracted Hugh’s promise there’d be no more gambling or trawling about the city at night, and no more women of questionable character to darken their door.